Week One

Since being in Thailand, I have learned and tried something new probably every day. I take my shoes off before entering any building and have to remember not to point the soles of my feet at anyone because that would communicate disrespect. Anytime we have to go into the city or to school, I pile into the back of a songtow – a type of truck with an open back and benches lining both sides. As strangers fill the spaces across from me and other students, we bounce along on the main highway as motorbikes bob and weave through traffic. Whenever I need to greet someone, I press my hands together and hold them to my face while practicing some of the only Thai words I know: “Sa wa dee ka.” I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve had to swipe my toilet paper out of the bowl (yes, after the deed was done) because we’re not supposed to flush it. As I type, tiny spiders weave their bodies in and through gaps in my keyboard, and I’ve willingly put a grasshopper between my lips. In many ways, this land is foreign to me.

But in reality, I’m the one who is “Farang” or foreign. And that little switch in the syntax is important. One of the books I have to read, Owning Poverty, talks about that key difference:

It is not where, but how we go that matters. (Pucci 12).

Since I’m a student and going to be here for four months, I’ve been hyper aware of the how. At times, I’ve been a tourist, splashing through waterfalls and snapping photos of food and architecture as I pass by. Any time someone mentions the market, I get excited just thinking of how much I could buy because of the exchange rate. Travel is such a glamorized, glorified, concept, but it’s also one that can make the world a museum – only to be looked at – or a buffet – only there to feed any desires. Let’s be honest: it’s nice to be pampered.

But if I am the one being catered to, who is the one doing the catering? That’s what I’ve come to Thailand to learn: the ways that people in Southeast Asia – and really all over the world – are suffering for the convenience of others. Day one of class, a professor put on a documentary about exploitation. As we watched, one of the narrators broke down the price for one hour of sex as a result of trafficking: 100 baht or around $3. A human body in exchange for some spare bills.

Maybe you’re like me and couldn’t imagine ever using another human like that. It seems unimaginable to inflict that kind of pain on someone. But maybe you’re like me again and easily forget that a human being had to pay for your cheap clothes through exploited labor. Amidst all of the beauty I have seen, I have also come to the sinister realization that so many aspects of life are set up to cater the privileged at the expense of people’s freedom.

It boggles my mind how people can just purchase other bodies for their own uses, but I refuse to push the thought aside just because it makes me uncomfortable. We are all capable of evil. Along with that capacity for evil exists a capacity for goodness. As Aleksander Solzhenitsyn says, “the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being.” There’s an odd sense of comfort I draw from the realization that no matter how much I feel out of control, I will always have the choice between those two. So even though this kind of suffering feels so distant from me, feels like it’s a world away rather than, realistically, across town, I cling to the truth that my choice will impact people whether I see them or not. You have that power too, you who felt that change was only possible for the wealthy (although newsflash: that’s probably you if you’re reading this on your computer right now), for the politically successful, for the other. As Pucci declares, we cannot deny our connection to others’ pain even if it’s heartbreaking to unravel just how much suffering goes on while other parts of the world live their lives in ignorance (5).

I know that I learned yet another piece of my own ignorance when watching another documentary on sex trafficking in Cambodia. During one of the explanations, the narrator mentioned a genocide that took place in the 1970’s. What? This was recent. My parents lived through that. How had I missed this? Every day, our homework has been packed with one story after another of death, of suffering, of pain, of what seems like every kind of evil inflicted from one human to another, and it’s hard to even know how to respond.

One morning, I read Psalm 44. My mind stuck on one verse, one in which the author accuses of God, “You have sold your people for a trifle, demanding no high price for them.” I thought of that 100 baht. Those $3 given in exchange for a body, who is a person with a heart, dreams, and hopes. Hope. That concept is so slippery. Just the night before, I was talking through everything with a friend, feeling a bit like Solomon when he accused the world of being meaningless. How could I sit in a classroom and learn about sufferings, take notes on it, while people were living through it probably just across town? Staring these problems down feels like gazing into a black hole as it threatens to swallow everything.

Somehow, the author’s sadness didn’t discourage me. I actually take comfort in reading passages like that or Ecclesiastes that acknowledge the reality of doubt. The author of that Psalms didn’t stop at lamentation, though. Earlier on in the chapter, the author said, “For not in my bow do I trust, nor can my sword save me.” And even though he questioned, he still professed his belief in God’s power.

So many things were wrapped up in that passage – doubt, frustration, faith – and one that I really want to remember is that I’m not big enough. If these problems feel too big, it’s probably because they are. None of us are meant to be able to fix the world – “Not in my bow do I trust, nor can my sword save me.” I think the author of Psalms 44 is on to something.

I’m in the midst of this journey, wading through while waist deep, so I don’t have a definite answer. I just have such a hard time holding onto what feels like an abstract hope in the face of tangible pain, but I’ve been taking comfort in Jesus. To borrow Shrek’s metaphor, Jesus is like an onion. The Jesus I knew when I was little is still the same Savior I know now, but He’s helped me peel back the layers of his sojourn with humanity. Each layer reveals His heart for those the world rejects. I trust in my Savior who became a refugee, a nomad, a poor person, and so many other things that help Him identify with those on the margins. So, even though I still feel overwhelmed by the world, I remember to look back at the carpenter who became the world’s savior. I know I will probably never understand why the world works the way it does, but for now, I can see that Jesus has not forgotten. As one of the pastor’s here on our campus said, “The gospel is for the poor, the needy.” Pucci outlines two purposes hidden within the title of Owning Poverty: the first is “taking responsibility for the corporate debt of poverty” (5). The second is “’owning up to’ (admitting) poverty” (5). The program I’m in urges part of this journey to be the realization of others whose suffering has gone unnoticed and unchallenged. The other part of this journey is to empty my life of false securities and to understand my own neediness for God. Here we go into the deep end.

#Jesus #Psalms